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PROFILES 



Arthur Ketchum 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
I916 



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Copyright IQ16, by Richard G. Badger 
All rights reserved 



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The author wishes to thank the Editors of 
The Atlantic Monthly, Harper^ s Magazine, Every- 
body's Magazine, The Forum, Smart Set, Ainslee^s, 
and The International for their courteous permis- 
sion to repubhsh several of these verses. 




FEB 21 1916 



The Gotham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



^(S)JI,A420S55 



^>t^ 



J AD MATREM 

L, November, 191 5 



CONTENTS 

En Passant 9 

The Garden 9 

Old Apple Trees lo 

The Fire lo 

Arabesques II 

Tide Rock 12 

Succory 12 

Szveet-Bay 13 

Shadow 13 

Talisman 14 

The Mother I4 

Across the Marsh 15 

Music at Night 15 

For Remembrance 16 

The Head-Land 17 

Moonrise 18 

Wings 18 

The Intruder 19 

The Flower 19 

That Day 20 

The Name 20 

Her Anger 21 

Nightingales in Exile 22 

War 23 

Interned 23 

The Kite 24 

Escape 24 

Interlude 25 

From a Spanish Sketch Book 

The Road to Granada 27 

Romance 27 

Chapel Royal 28 

Seville 29 

Padre 29 

Lola 30 

Dolores 30 

Traveller's Joy 31 



The Mountain 

Ascent 32 

Summit 33 

Dark 34 

The Song of the Canoe 35 

In the Highlands 37 

Upland Acres 38 

The Rain 39 

The Lost Trail 40 

Shadow Time 41 

Roadside Rest 42 

The Scent 0' Pine 43 

The Thrush 44 

In the Arena 45 

A Street Cry 46 

The Gleam 47 

Come Buy 48 

Even-Songs 49 

Captives 50 

Rencontre 50 

Fog in the City 51 

Street Song 51 

Decoration Day 52 

The Sea Wind 53 

Trees in the Park 54 

Paraclete 54 

Alle Seelen 55 

Eroica 56 

Knighted 57 

The Secret Children 58 

Day^s End 59 

Pipes of Pan 60 

An Old Song 61 

The Happy Spirit 62 

The Blue Divide 62 

To-Morrow 63 

The Weaver 63 

Postscript 64 



APOLOGIA 

What will they be to you, 

My little carven words? 
My Treasure of deep seas! 

My Dust of Kings! 
My Wonderful! 

Set in the straight rozvs, 
Line by line, 

Dull changelings all! — 
They do not tell you anything; 

They will not shine or sing; 
And you will read. 

Not see and hear. 
If you found upon your garden path 

The fragile shards of an egg shell 
Would that give you the bird? 

Or zvhen the tvind 
Scatters before your feet 

The white petals of a shaken rose^ 
Can you reconstruct the flower? 

A blossom broken in the wind, 
A crushed shell, 

What have they to do 
With rapture of song and flight 

With color and fragrance 
And life? 



EN PASSANT 

It is white 

As the heart of a sun-bleached shell, 
The little room, 

And when at night the lamp is lit 
It glows like a flower; 

It is then I like it best. 
Looking in as I pass through the rain: 

The white walls, 
The table and the chairs. 

The little print above the chimney piece: 
One would grow quiet here I think, 

And dream sweet thoughts 
And face old age and death 

With courage undismayed. 



THE GARDEN 

All the repressed years, all the meager days, 

All the denials, all the frustrate joys. 
The frosted .loves, the unreckoned dreams, 

They have been gathered like a harvest, 
Their color and their fragrance 

All distilled 
And pour'd upon this ground 

Like wine. 
O holly-hocks, rose and ruby. 

Lupin and larkspur, sea-blue, calm as the 
sky. 
Scarlet sage and golden nameless things, 

Do ye know the vats that bred you? 
Or what vintage ye are of .^ 



OLD APPLE TREES 

I like the gnarled apple trees 

And the worn low house: 
They have grown old together 

And like understanding friends, 
Beyond necessity of speech, 

They keep a happy silence. 
Even in blossom time 

They are not young; 
The pink and white 

On the old boughs 
Is only afterglow; 

And the lilies 
By the sagging gate 

— Lavender among lush leaves — 
Are like the pattern 

On old plates, 
The treasure of spice scented cupboards 

With white doors. 



THE FIRE 

Here at the margin of the twilit earth 

I heap the wood, clean with the sea 
And dried with many suns, 

And kindle the valiant flame. 
Undaunted by the darkness of two worlds. 

O, brave its little challenge to the stars !- 
Fearless it laughs above the sheer abyss, 

A shining kinship to all suns that are: 
As though a soul enkindled by the Spark, 

Unquenched by darkness, 
Undismayed by space. 

Should flame its Credo to Infinity. 



lo 



ARABESQUES 

When there is no sun 

And the morning is heavy with rain, 
The sea seems Uke burnished steel, 

And the sails, 
Far off and faint, 

Like the worn arabesques 
Of a rune 

On an ancient battle shield. 



II 



I heard the rain on the roof,: 

Like idle fingers it seemed 
Thrumming a formless tune: 

Without sequence. 
Without beginning or change 

Or end : 
And I thought what if the tune took shape 

And fell into rhythm 
And sang: 

Could men listen 
And not go mad ? 

Ill 

Over the hill, 

Hand-like a cloud reached up. 
And grasped the sun; 

(Did God forgetful let it slip so low?) 
And then it seemed the greedy fingers 

Dripped with gold. 
That spattered down the sky. 



II 



TIDE ROCK 

The other rocks crouch huddled up the shore 

Bleached in the sun and safe, 
And bare and dead; 

But one has dared 
To creep down to the tide-line 

And to take 
The buffet of each idle wave 

Upon its patient cheek, 
And to be drowned, deserted, 

And then buffeted again. 
See how the sea-weed 

Has begun to twist itself upon it 
Like a crown. 



SUCCORY 

Flower that brings the color 

Of the sea 
To the sad need of vacant city lots 

Parched in the sun; 
Flower that is the joy of wistful 

Prison'd folk; 
Herb of grace. 

What do you here 
Along the harbor wall. 

Where the white shingle 
Dips like a bosom 

For the weary sea? 



12 



SWEET-BAY 

In the sun-smitten field 

Arid and parched 
The grass is almost white 

As bones bleached 
And dry on the sand. 

All the long day the heat 
Drugs it to silence: 

But see how the sweet-bay 
Makes a pool, 

So green, so dark, 
That one peering into it 

Might see his face 
Reflected far down, 

Like a leaf floating on still water. 



SHADOW 

Of a sudden all the light grew old : 

And the sun 
Like a weary and spent flame 

Paled in the wan blue. 
The very trees shivered and drew their 
branches close, 

And here on the roadside 
The flowers stared 

With haggard eyes. 
Was it then that some one 

In a little white house at the foot of 
the hill 
Pulled down a shade 

And said 'He is dead','' 



13 



TALISMAN 

I will take the azure of the sea today 

And lay it on my soul 
Like a patina; 

And over its blue. 
Spread the shadow of the green 

On this sun filled head-land: 
And the faint lilac of the fluted wave, 

And of the little shadows of the sand; 
And they shall merge and mingle, 

Melt and fuse. 
Until they are a jewel 

God will lock away, 
Too beautiful for earthly wear. 



THE MOTHER 

On the dim beach, 

Watching the sea, 
I saw a woman stand with blowing skirts, 

A child beside her. 
The waves came almost to their feet: 

And hissed and gleamed 
Like some white-fanged and hungry beast. 

Some beautiful untamed and fatal thing. 
And when the child leaned down and laughed 

The woman caught her up 
And crushed her close. 

And sped across the gray sands 
To a lighted door. 



14 



ACROSS THE MARSH 

When the heat spins a veil 

Over the face of the noon, 
Then the gray Httle town 

Across the marshland, 
And the harbor arm 
^|Above its empty wharves 
And idle masts, 

Grows faint and tenuous, 
Spectral and dim, 

Like a picture 
Fading on a wall 

Of a forgotten room. 



MUSIC AT NIGHT 

It is as though you opened your window 

And threw into the night 
HandfuUs of diamonds, 

Hard, shining little stones 
That fell 

Like pebbles under my feet; 
Or scattered in the warm dusk 

Rose petals, 
Crimson and white. 

Scented and cool. 
Soft as rain; 

When I pass your house 
And hear you playing. 



IS 



FOR REMEMBRANCE 

The gasping marsh forsaken by the tide 

Remembers still the sea; 
All lover-like he came 

And laid a spent and weary cheek 
Upon her waiting breast, 

A brief and blessed hour, 
As for her comforting. 

Look where the sea once laid his lips 
Blue of his blue and gray as tears, 

The flower of remembrance, 
Rosemary. 



i6 



THE HEAD-LAND 

The head-land is a Sphinx, 

And to her feet 
Creep all the legions of the sea, 

Each with his question, 
Asked and asked again 

But still unanswered. 
Ah, the cry, 

The protest 
Of each baffled wave 

That still must ask and be denied! 
Some day, her granite lips 

Will speak; 
And then the sea will come no more 

To cry before her carven feet, 
And she will crumble like a ruined shrine 

Deserted; 
Since she has spoken 

And a Sphinx no more. 



17 



MOONRISE 

It is white and shadowless 

As a pearl, 
The moon tonight; 

It leans upon us 
Like a watching face, 

White, white! 
It will not soften into tears, 

Or flush, or change, 
For all it sees; 

The pity was washed out of it 
When it grew wise and white 

And dead. 



WINGS 

Moth wings fluttering in the dusk 

Soft and blind, 
So futile, yet so sure. 

I watch you wondering. 
Shall I pity you .'' 

Little ships that drift 
Without lights 

And rudderless; 
Or envy you 

As something winged and free? 
Is it flight 

Or — escape .'' 
Little wings 

In the dusk! 



i8 



THE INTRUDER 

Here in this little room 

The lamps are lit; 
And the fire 

Is like a red lily 
In a dark bowl; 

It is so bright, so still, so safe, 
One lays aside the last defence 

And the sword 
Is sheathed! 

I will turn the pages of old dreams 
Like a book of forgotten songs — 

Why should the moonlight 
Like a spent wave 

Lie white upon the threshold 
Of my open door? 



THE FLOWER 

There is a garden eastward 

Where each day 
A mighty flower blooms and blows; 

Petal by petal, 
Opening its golden heart. 

And then it pales 
And fades 

Until at last 
A hand out reaches from the west 

And gathers it. 



19 



THAT DAY 

That day there were two paths to choose; 

I took the Httle one 
That led through pastures sweet with bay 

And cedar trees 
And up a sudden hill-side 

To the sea 
That closed upon it like a door of space 

And ended it. 
But you that kept the road 

So shadowless, so straight, 
Have found the little towns 

Thick set with trees, 
The farm lands rich with toil. 

The towered city, 
Shining like a dream; 

And still 
The road leads on. 



THE NAME 

Over and over all day long 

I say your name; 
And wrap it up 

In little tender words 
I never heard or learned, 

But know. 
Over and over all day long! 

Until my heart is sweet. 
Like some dim room 

Where flowers have been. 



20 



HER ANGER 

Her anger is an east wind, 

Thunderous 
Witii storms unspent, 

Clouding the day! 
Portentous 

Frought with fate: 
But oh, her scorn! 

Clear lightning 
Riving the gloom! 

West wind keen and cold, 
Cleansing and making whole 

With promise of a star 
White in the twilight sky. 



21 



NIGHTINGALES IN EXILE 

In alien woods tonight 

The brown birds 
Sing: 

Out of wrecked gardens, 
Desecrated fields, 

Sanctuaries 
For ever spoiled, 

(What songs are yours, O torn and 
bleeding world 
Of ancient quiet and old peace?) 

They come; 
To sing the silver back 

To foreign stars 
And bring the English night 

Forgotten sweetness, 
Pledge 

Of that eternal beauty. 
Triumphing still. 

And past the reach 
Of wars. 



22 



WAR 

Wings that darken the morning, 

Clouding the blue, 
Vultures that hover 

Imminent, greedy, sure, 
Grim harvesters. 

Who can escape you ? 
The air is poisoned with smoke 

Of far-off battles. 
The guilty earth: — 

O mother spoiled and betrayed! 
Spawns a horrible breed: 

The dew of its birth 
Is blood. 



INTERNED 

All the long day, here in this little room 

With its white walls and window open to the sky, 

I lie and watch the hours go by me, 

One by one! 
They are like birds, the passing slow winged hours, 
Birds in an endless flight, 
And each one with a cry. 
It is not bells I hear from out some city tower, 

It is a cry — silver and soft and glad — 
Of something free! 
All the long day I watch the hours' flight 

And when the dark comes and I cannot see, 
I have the sense of wings; I hear 

The cry! 



23 



THE KITE 

I watched a boy with a kite, 

(It was red as a tulip 
And sky and sea were blue). 

At first it seemed to hesitate 
As though afraid, 

And then gaining courage by a little 
flight 
It took the wind and soared. 

Up, up, 
Like something free, 

Dipping, veering. 
Drifting, 

And up again 
Until it found 

The cord. 
Free yet tied! 

Better to lie with untried wings 
Then come so near to freedom 

And a cord. 



ESCAPE 

I said I would have done with thoughts, 

And names and labels. 
This shall be no more a tree. 

Or that a flower, 
Or colors, green and blue and red, 

Or love, or hate or joy: 
For I am sick with the disease of thought 

And its delirium, imagination. 
But laying my lips to the Great Cup, 

I will drink deep of beauty, 
Wordless, colorless, without name or thought. 

And I shall be whole. 



24 



INTERLUDE 

You that blame the singing 

With the ready tongue, 
Could you hear the ringing 

Of the songs unsung, 
All the surge and splendor, 

Joy and lyric pain. 
Would you change, I wonder, 

Blame to praise again? 
So when men benighted 

In some marshy place 
Feel with eyes unsighted. 

Fresh wind on their face 
Long sought and denied them, 

Guess how near 7nay be 
In the dark beside them. 

All the waiting sea. 



25 



FROM A SPANISH SKETCH BOOK 

THE ROAD TO GRANADA 

All day, the burning furnace of the plain; 

Bare mountains white with sun — the distances 
Breathless, unbroken, save where olive trees 

Spent their scant shade and weary fields of 
grain 
Ebbed in the heat like an enchanted main 

On the wrapt shores of some Hesperides. 
Still little towns — as sun besieged as these, 

A hill-top tower glimpsed and lost again — 
Who guessed this wonder at the journey's close? 

The shining towers, the leafy long Ravine, 
Shadows and murmuring water everywhere! 

Above, Sierra with its crown of snow — 
And, midway-set, in gardens, hung in air, 

Alhambra, throned and lovely like a queen! 

ROMANCE 

{Patio de Daraxa. Alhambra) 

The pomegranate's boughs are astir, 

Where the scarlet blossoms blow. 
Is it the voice of awakened bird? 

Or the lingering ghost of a broken word 
Said long and long ago? 

For the moon lies white on the court, 

And the shadows are thick between 
The columns of the dim arcade. 

The wizard Moorish builders made 
For a forgotten Queen. 



27 



This was the place she sought 

Weary of song and Hght, 
Where the wind moved soft as a prayer 

And the fountain swayed in the scented air 
Like a white flower of the night. 

And here where the starry dark 

Wrought magic and mysteries, 
Who knew if a proud Queen stormed and wept, 

There in the palace that reveled or slept, 
Behind the lattices? 

The night is astir with its dream; 

The moon is on tower and wall — 
Hush! in the shadow something stirred! 

A bough bent by a restless bird? 
Or the sound of a light foot-fall? 

CHAPEL ROYAL 

Granada 

Men have seen visions in this reverend place. 

And walked here softly as on holy ground — 
Here the carved angels thrilled to hear the sound 

Of alleluias, like a storm of grace 
Beating upon these heights of dusky space! 

Proud knees have bent here — Kingly heads and 
crowned 
Bowed here adoring. Royalty hath found 

Itself made humble by this thorn-browed Face! 
Here sleeps the dust of unremembered dead. 

Under their banners' fading blazonry: 
Old wars have hushed here — valiant swords found 
rest; 

Here Pomp grown weary in a Kingdom's stead 
Under the wings of peace, sleeps quietly — , 

A tired child upon a mother's breast! 

28 



SEVILLE 

A city of the flowers by day, 

In booth and stall: 
Along her streets — in place and square 

Are flowers, flowers, everywhere, 
And over all. 

A city of the flowers by night: 

What other name — 
For these long garlands down her streets 

That every river bank repeats 
But flowers of flame? 



PADRE 

No pallid ecstasies for such! 

Those lips have laughed too long and much 
To linger long in wistful prayer; 

He has the eager ready air 
Of one who finds today too sweet 

To lose a moment — all replete 
With pleasure, to the very brim 

Life holds a winking cup to him. 
Priest? Yes; but one would surmise 

Vowed to some Bacchic sacrifice. 
Look closer at the crisping hair! 

Find you no hint of vine leaves there? 



29 



LOLA 

To-day is festa — Lola piles her hair 

Into a dusky tower, then with care, 
Adjusts the comb — and deftly puts a rose 

Just at the place where it best shows 
Under the white mantilla; now — the shawl. 

Deep fringed and embroidered, made to fall 
In soft folds almost to her slippered feet. 

Lastly her fan! She's ready for the street! 
Insolent, radiant, like a brilliant flower, 

Lola will glow her brief pathetic hour 
Then grow old suddenly and fade away 

Into obscurity — that's the Spanish way. 



DOLORES 

Withered incredibly, — bent, toothless, spare, 

Crowlike — you mark her hovering there! 
Choosing a posy at the flower-stall, 

Lean shoulders dragging in her rusty shawl, 
Paying her grudging penny for a rose! 

That is Dolores! you would not suppose 
That men have loved her, fought for her — her 
name 

Whispered by women — like a word of shame. 
This battered thing the market girls despise; 

There's nothing live about her — but her eyes. 



30 



TRAVELLER'S JOY 

The hills near by were golden, 
The far-off hills were blue, 

There was a brook that sang so clear, 
I needs must answer, too! 

There was a little upland road 
That dipped into a hollow, 

Where all the maples were a-flame. 
And so I needs must follow: 

And follow, follow, till the dusk 
Had made the near hills far! 

And answer, answer, till the brook 
Sang to a silver star! 



31 



THE MOUNTAIN 

ASCENT 

There was a brawling brook to gossip cheer, 
When first the hill-path found the woods and 
lead 
Through cool green glooms. The branches over- 
head 
Touched friendly hands, and once a thrush 
sang near. 
Then sudden stillness and the way climbed sheer 
Up breathless stretches, through a shadowed 

space, 
When hemlocks whispered, and then, face to 
face, 
I stood with the last peak, far off and clear. 

It flung a splendid challenge to the breeze, 
I pressed on, strong and eager, up the steep, 
Behind me lay the forests hushed with sleep — 
Above me in its granite majesty, 
Sphinx-like the peak thro' silent centuries 
Met the eternal question of the sky. 



32 



SUMMIT 

Victor at last — throned on the cragged height — 
I scan the green steeps of the mountain side 
Where late I toiled. The forest lands stretch 
wide, 

And in deep valleys farms gleam faint and white. 

Vistas of distance break upon my sight, 

The peopled plain creeps to the sky's blue rim 
Where far peaks gather — substanceless and dim 

As half-remembered dreams by noontime light. 
Between two silences my soul floats still 

As any white cloud in this sunny air. 

No sound of living breaks upon my ear, 
No strain of thought — no restless human will — 
Only the virgin quiet, everywhere — 

Earth never seemed so far, or Heaven so near. 



33 



DARK 

The shadow falls from Time's slow-passing wing — 

The color burns to ashes in the west; 

The last light fades along the darkened crest, 
And night takes still possession, like a King. 

In the near fields of sky are blossoming 
The white stars in a shining multitude; 
It seems my hand might pluck them, if it would — 

All flower-like in their close companioning. 

The valleys fade in dark — the woods recede; 
A swift wind, fresh from space, blows keen and 
cold: 

In the awed silence of this dim high place 
One keeping vigil might not fear, indeed, 
If it befell him as that man of old, 

Who in the mountain met God, face to face. 

Franconia 

September^ IQ15 



34 



THE SONG OF THE CANOE 

Dip! Dip! 

And I thrill with the start — 

For the ripples run and the waters part 

At the song the paddle sings. 

Drip! Drip! 
And lo, it brings 

The word of a sweet command to me 
And leaping to answer it — I am free! 

Water-weeds weaving in vain to stay me. 

Fain, fain 

Are the reeds arrayed at my prow to delay me — 

Vain, vain. 

They cast their lure and they bid me bide; 

But the paddle swinging along my side — 

Dip! Dip! 

Hath a dearer bribe then the still things know, 

And I go, I go! 

Lo, I am come of a wilding birth — 

The Brown God's cunning my mother made. 

In the days of the younger earth. 

He wrought her stanch in sinew and thong. 

Making her slender and supple and strong 

And lithe as his knife's own blade. 

He garnished her bravely, without and within, 

Breathed into her being the soul of desire, 

To follow the wake of the mad marsh-lire. 

Thistle-drift's sister and Will-o'-the Wisp's kin. 



35 



Out on the trail that the free things know, 

I go! I goi 
On the airy quest that is never won; 
And tempting me, daring me, luring me on, 
The iris wings of the dragon fly — 
Till the day is done and the last lights die. 

GHde! GUde! 

Across the calm of the evening tide 
When the first white stars begin. 

Creep! Creep! 

Where the lilies sleep — 

Stars in a sky as soft, as deep — 

The paddle singing me in. 

Hush! Hush! 

For the tall reeds brush 

My side as though they love me. 

Rest! Rest! 

On the inlet's breast 

With the roof of the leaves above me. 



36 



IN THE HIGHLANDS 

The Garry to the Tummel flows, 

And Tummel seeks the sea, 
And under boughs of beech and pine 

The wild white waters sing and shine, 
And call and call to me. 

Oh, banks bestarred with primroses! 

Oh, woodland whisperings! 
High in the blue I catch the gleam 

Half guessed, half seen, and all a dream- 
Of drifting sea birds' wings. 

Here in the hills with loch and ben 

Comes the old call to me. 
Of endless spaces and the quest 

That will not let me stay or rest 
But lures my heart to sea. 



37 



UPLAND ACRES 

Bleak in the dusk I see them He, 
The little stony fields swept bare 

Of their scant harvest — And the sky 
Close bent above them, as aware. 

So pitiful their precious store! 

So meager, yet so dear appears 
Each careful furrow tilled no more. 

It seems almost a thing for tears. 

For here such patient toil has bent 
And here has centred faith and prayer 

And here has Hope its radiance spent, 
And Fear has watched here and Despair. 

So barren and so rock beset! 

Mocked by the bay and cedar trees: 
Sterile and worthless — yet, ah yet — 

God of all harvests, think on these. 

And for the sake of toil and prayer, 
Of thy rich store no gift withhold, 

Till unguessed glories make them fair, 
These weary acres, gray and old. 



38 



THE RAIN 

Long waited for, deferred, despaired — 

At last — the rain! 
A silver silence on the hill, 

Along the lane, 

The parched sward, like a thirsty child, 

Today holds up 
Its grateful, needy lips, 

As to a cup. 

The dripping boughs are weighted down- 

The birds are still; 
The garden things bow low to take 

Its quiet will. 

The little street has hushed its life: 

The winds scarce dare 
To stir this peace that falls as soft. 

As answered prayer! 



39 



THE LOST TRAIL 

Green woodland pity heals the ancient scar; 

Spring after spring, through still unresting 
years, 
In little saplings and the tufted pine. 

The old trail disappears. 

Forbidden vine and fern-brake come once more; 

Brown leaves have hid the secret deep and 
well; 
Only the scattered blaze-marks, blurred and dim, 

A fading message tell. 

One coming here might seek for it in vain; 

There is no sign above the guarded gate 
To point the path, to where the still wood keeps 

Its heart inviolate. 

The old path fades, forgotten; only guessed, 
And scarcely found and once more lost again. 

No record serves to show the long-healed wound 
Of havoc and of pain. 

God send all trails forgetfulness as this! 

Such healing pity of the kindly years, 
That no swift-footed memory may find 

Lost places of old tears! 



40 



SHADOW TIME 

The brown arms rest at the journey's end; 

The ripples eddy and fade and die; 
The inlet's dark where the birches bend, 

And the lily-squadrons at anchor lie. 

The woods are loud with the coming night; 

A thousand choirs sing even-song; 
And high in the west — Oh, high and white! 

The first star beacons the shining throng. 

This is the chosen and perfect hour, 

When the dim trail ends at the dusky shore; 

And leads through the fern and the cardinal 
flower, 
To a waiting light and open door. 



41 



ROADSIDE REST 

Such quiet sleep has come to them! 

The Springs and Autumns pass, 
Nor do they know if it be snow 

Or daisies in the grass. 

All day the birches bend to hear 

The river's undertone; 
Across the hush a fluting thrush 

Sings evensong alone. 

But down their dream there drifts no sound, 

The winds may sob and stir: 
On the still breast of Peace they rest, 

And they are glad of her. 

They ask not any gift — they mind 

Not any foot that fares; 
Unheededly life passes by, 

Such quiet sleep is theirs. 



42 



THE SCENT O' PINE 

Across the drowsing noon, like some soft spell, 
Than any woodbreath, sweeter and more fine, 

Elusive, poignant and ineffable 
The scent o' Pine. 

As one who opening a casket laid 

Safe from all curious eyes, too dear to see. 

And finds old letters that the years have made 
A Memory — 

And wrought of ancient sweetness, hope and fears, 
From out the faded pages, there arise 

Fragrances, that call forgotten tears 
Back to the eyes. 

So now to one returning to this hill 

Guarded by sun and silence as a shrine. 

What long forgotten presence mingles still 
With scent o' Pine! 



43 



THE THRUSH 

I hear him when the sunlight pales 
And shadows on the grass grow long — 

Leaf-hid, insistent, lyrical: 
The singer of one song 

That will not quite reveal his heart, 
Nor all attain the magic word — 

Nor capture in one golden note 
The rapture of the bird. 

Yet how the silence thrills to hear! 

The leaves hang breathless lest there 
fall 
Wasted, one halting liquid strain. 

One yearning interval. 

Again and yet again — until 

The dark enshrines the haunted place; 
And from the shadowy skies looks down 

A star's adoring face! 



44 



IN THE ARENA 

Yes! with the dust in my throat! Yes! with the 

roar in m}' ears! 
Of the Victor's tumult of praise — the mingled 

hisses and cheers! 
While the faces grow dim in a haze. Is it blood? 

Is it tears? 

And over me, in a cloud — like visible, sentient 
things, 
A-flock o'er the places where Death, their car- 
rion victim flings — 

Defeat and Despair hover near, on terrible wait- 
ing wings ! 

They shall not have me! Not yet! For the will 

makes its desperate claim; 
(O weakness grow strong! O pain be a sword! 

Be a wakening flame 
And burn the last dross of denial in fires of shame!) 

Now — once again! Up! Up! Not yet is the 

uttermost end! 
Not till Strength makes its ultimate cast — its 

last rally send! 
You have taken your toll of the Flesh; here's Soul 

yet to conquer, my friend! 



45 



A STREET CRY 

Oh, now the heavenly daffodils 
Their yellow lamps have lit, 

And vendors take the golden spoil, 
The streets are bright with it, 

And baskets brimmed as they can hold 
Are precious with the April gold. 

Here's daffodils! I hear them cry 

Along the noisy way; 
There's winter in the air and sky, 

The city streets are gray, 
But like a hope and prophecy 

The yellow flowers flame for me. 

Here's daffodils! oh, somewhere now 
The earliest dreams awake: 

Dim stirrings vex the sleeping bough 
For unborn April's sake — 

And gardens patient in the snow 
A thrill of tender promise know. 

And weary folk that waited long 

Look up and hope again, 
In the dumb spaces like a song 

The old cry echoes plain. 
New wine the empty chalice fills 

And for a sign— here's daffodils! 



46 



THE GLEAM 

Spring light over the square — 
Yet the bravest boughs are bare 

And the bleak winds pass 
Over the starveling grass. 

Spring light — tender and blue 

As April ever knew, 
A'laking the grim and dull 

All new and beautiful! 

Till the pallid loungers seem 
Caught in a sudden dream, 

And the sodden faces share 
In something brave and fair! 

Listen and you will hear 
Triumphant, mellow-clear, 

A note like a bugle's call 
In the roaring's interval. 

A street tune! wistful and gay 
That the gutter organs play — 

And carol weary and wise 
The city's song to the skies! 



47 



COME BUY! 
"here's flowers for you" perdita 

The flower-faces bend :,'_.ove the flowers 

That make the long low loft so strangely gay. 
Undying beauty — mocking the brief stay 

Of theirs who toil there thro' the weary hours! 
Outside, all April, and the sun and showers, 

The keen wind blowing freshly from the bay: 
Here tired eyes scarce pause to mark the day; 

And tired hands contend against dim powers. 
O Perdita! In all thy garland set 

Are blossoms sad as these that poverty 
Weaves in its need to make some other fair? 

Who reck not in each rose and violet 
The weary eyes that tears made dim to see, 

The tired hands that grappled with despair. 



48 



EVEN-SONGS 
I 

The river flows a golden tide 

Up to a purple shore, 
The banners of the smoke drift wide 

Across the open door 
That God has set beyond the west 

And made a starry way, 
To lead to welcome and to rest 

Another pilgrim day. 

II 

Down to the night and the sea 

The slow sails drift and go, 
Out of a west spread goldenly 

Over the purple lands — 
Past where the city stands, 

And the dark begins to be, 
And the lights flare row on row, 

The slow sails drift to the sea. 

This is the hope of the day! 

The promise darkens and dies 
And the trail of a shadowy way 

Leads from the dusky shore: 
Irrevocable evermore. 

That will not stop or stay. 
Drifts to the ruined skies 

The slow winged hope of the day. 



49 



CAPTIVES 

At every street-end is the glint of the sea; 

The last tall houses open like a door, 

And space and light are waiting evermore 

Just at the street-end. Oh, how mockingly 

Flashes the vision of that liberty 

On the sick eyes of men held prisoner 

By endless walls and iron streets a-roar, 

Fain for the sea way fetterless and free! 

Out of the dusk that darkens half their day 

They turn, for comfort, to that square of light, 

The wistful eyes that watch through captive bars 

The gleam of wings, the far-off azure bay, 

Or some great ship her full sails crowding white 

And skies entangled in a net of spars. 



RENCONTRE 

Sometimes in these alien streets, 
In this strange time and place, 
Almost I stop to speak to you — 
Thinking I see your face; 

Your Very-Self, your eyes. 
Your poised and perfect head; 
Almost I start and say your name- 
Forgetting you are dead. 



SO 



FOG IN THE CITY 

Till now the houses in my street 
Showed me a dear accustomed grace 
Of homely quiet that made kind, 
Each worn familiar face. 

But now, blown in from empty miles, 
Comes this white magic from the sea 
To cast a spell across the noon 
And win my own away from me — 

To dim my near and friendly sky. 
To make the honest daylight pale. 
To weave across my quiet ways 
A silence and a veil. 



STREET SONG 

The thought of you like music 
Sang in my heart all day; 
It wrapped me close as sunshine 
Through many a dusty way ; 

It folded me in quietness 
Through all the fret and jar; 
It led me to the edge of dusk 
And laughed on me — a star. 



SI 



DECORATION DAY 

All down the dull unheeding street 

The marching men went by — 
The banners drifted in the wind, 

The bugle's silver cry 
Sang clear, sang high for triumphing, 

Sang soft as tho' for tears: 
The tunes that led the marching men 

To battles of old years. 

Far down the gray, unlistening street 

It faded and was done; 
Oh, bugles, crying from the heights, 

Of starry victories won, — 
There follows you in shadowy hosts, 

Unreckoned and denied — 
The legions of the love that wept, 

The ranks of them that died! 



52 



THE SEA WIND 

Winnow me through with thy keen blown breath, 

Wind with the tang of the sea! 
Speed through the closing gates of the day, 

Find me and fold me; have thy way 
And take thy will of me! 

Use my soul as you used the sky — 

Dull sky of this sullen day! 
Clear its doubt as you sped its wrack 

Of storm cloud bringing its splendor back, 
Giving it gold for gray! 

Bring me word of the moving ships. 

Halyards and straining spars; 
Come to me clean from the sea's wide breast, 

While the last lights die in the yellow west 
Under the first white stars! 

Batter the closed doors of my heart 

And set my spirit free! 
For I stifle here in this crowded place, 

Sick for the tenantless fields of space, 
Wind with the tang of the sea! 



S3 



TREES IN THE PARK 

They are not like their sisters of the wood, 

These city-trees, 
For they have lost their innocence 

Being too close to life. 
They wear their verdure like a veil, 

That hides but to reveal: 
Their shadow has a secret and a shame — 
Their whisper is a summons and a lure: 
For they have learned they have a price, 

And that their beauty is desirable — 
But they must sing and whisper. 

Yield, withhold; 
They are grown wise and weary since they came, 

These sad, lost sisters of the wood! 



PARACLETE 

With the first twilight comes the Comforter; 

Above the city smoke, clear set and plain. 
For every eye to share and take again 

The healing benison that comes with her. 
Low, low and near, a shining thurifer 

Before the bright high altar of the west, 
In some dim rite; a worship manifest 

As votive gold and frankincense and myrrh. 

Now Weariness, look up and lift your heart! 

Toil for a little rest the tired hands, 
And lonely Grief be comforted a space. 

Above gaunt towns, o'er torn and restless lands 
The quiet falls, the last dim curtains part — 

A white star bums before a watching Face! 



54 



ALLE SEELEN 

It is old love that calls to you — Oh, hark! 

Turn from the lights and laughter to the pane, 
Where the wet ivies glisten in the rain 

And the low wind cries houseless in the dark- 

And if there come there for a little space 
The pulse of wings bewildered in the night, 

Oh, understand! Old love strains to the light 
Craving the pity of your heedless face! 

This night is ours alone, in all the year — 

Dead loves, dead hopes, all buried futile thin^js— 

Be merciful to all the beating wings! 

They have so brief an hour — O lost and dear! 



55 



EROICA 

You that heard the voice of him manfully out- 
ringing, 
Rallying for lost causes the broken ranks of 
right- 
Praise the valiant faith of him, who led men with 
his singing, 
Down the shadowy slope of fear to outposts of 
the night. 

You that knew the word of him — wise or stern or 
tender, 
That grudged no man his honor — that never 
softened blame. 
That called a last endeavor in the face of full sur- 
render; 
Let it be of these you sing who come to crown 
his name. 

You that saw the brain of him — swift for rede and 
reckoning. 
That read with clear-eyed vision the councils 
of the past. 
Yet blazed thro' unknown wilderness trails of the 
future's beckoning; 
Remember all his wisdom and honor him at 
last. 

But I that heard the voice of him — knew the word 
and brain of him, 
I that stand today to praise with all the honor- 
ing lands, 
Bring my gift of tears to him — ^just for the human 
pain of him — 
Just for the gentle heart of him — and for the 
kindly hands. 



S6 



KNIGHTED 

Only a word — but I knew! 

Merely a touch — but I grew 
Healed and whole and blest, 

Strong for the Quest! 

Only a word — but I went 

Into my banishment, 
Singing your name and glad — 

New Galahad! 

And you — did you know or guess 
How your face leaned to bless! 

How of your faith was made 
God's accolade! 



57 



THE SECRET CHILDREN 

We are done with pity — we are done with grief — 
All the rains are ended, all the winds are laid, 

To the quiet country of the unfailing leaf, 
We have come together glad and unafraid. 

Here we have for music all the songs we sung — 
Lost, forgotten singing of passing lips and 
hands — 
Broken echoes of the joy we knew when we were 
young 
Gladden us forever in unshadowed lands. 

Never more to fright us — never more to chill — 
Change is like the crumbling wave ebbing back 
to sea : 

Time is but a little cloud that fades above the hill 
In the wide blue morning of eternity. 

We have made a garland of the tears we wept, 
We have wrought our sorrows in a crown of 
flowers. 
And our secret jewel is the joy we kept 

Safe throughout the wrecking years and the 
traitor hours. 

Call us not at morning time or at dusk of day, 
Seek us not by croft or dale — or on moor or 
linn; 
We have won the Fairy Path, where primroses 
lay. 
We have found the secret door and have entered 
in! 



58 



DAY'S END 

Beyond the clamor of the day's unrest, 

Desires unsatisfied and faltering aim, 
Doubts, hesitations, fearfulness and blame. 

The feeble answer to the Great Behest, 
Temptings acknowledged, failings unconfessed, 

The petty strife masked by a braver name, 
The jealousies that brought no saving shame, 

There shall be silence and a darkening west. 
Haply the last light of the passing day 

Will touch them with its pity ere it goes 
To some new morning — shadowless and far — 

Haply an instant all the troubled gray 
Will gleam with gold, will tremble into rose, 

And over them flame white a steadfast star! 



59 



PIPES OF PAN 

He laid his lips to a river reed! 

If you listened you might hear, 
The song the bright brown water sings 

In the Springtime of the year. 

He laid his lips to a river reed! 

If you listened you might hark, 
The sound of the sheep-flocks folded safe 

In the early April dark. 

He laid his lips to a river reed! 

And wistfully he blew, 
And lo, Love sang from out old years 

A lost sweet tune you knew — 

It seemed the stars came out to hear! 

— So clear he piped and wild — 
And it seemed the sleeping dead could hear, 

And hearing must have smiled! 

So sweet it was, so sad it was, 

So brave it was and clear. 
When the young Pan piped on a river reed, 

In the Springtime of the year. 



60 



AN OLD SONG 

When I was a young lad, 

And that is long ago, 
I thought that Luck loved every man. 

And time his only foe, 
And love was like a hawthorn bush 

That blossomed every May, 
And one had but to choose his flower. 

For that's the young lad's way. 

Oh, youth's a thriftless squanderer. 

It's easy come and spent: 
And heavy is the going now 

Where once the light foot went. 
The hawthorn bush puts on its white. 

The throstle whistles clear. 
But Spring comes once for every man, 

Just once in all the year. 



6i 



THE HAPPY SPIRIT 

The sorrows that I had how shall you know? 

No wound I keep — no scar is mine to show, 
Only I wear thro' God's unreckoned hours 

A crown of flowers ! 

How shall I witness all the perils passed, 

Leagued terrors down a journey dim and 
vast? 

This shining garment white as driven flame, 
Mine since I came — 

What record given of the great Release 
And the still waters of the wells of peace? 

Deeper than speech the wordless answer lies — 
Look in my eyes! 

THE BLUE DIVIDE 

A cloud in the East and a cloud in the West; 

And all day long the blue divide 
Of the sunderin : sky that lies between, 

Unsailed and wide. 

All day long from the East, from the West, 
Over spaces that kept them twain 

A white cloud called to a far-off cloud. 
And heard again! 

The East is far as the West is far; 

But look! — when the day is done — 
In the holy place of the earliest star, 

The clouds are one! 



62 



TO-MORROW 

To-morrow — when the dream comes true, 
When care is done and grief's away, 

To-morrow — when I share with you 
The joy withheld from us to-day! 

To-morrow — when the bitter word 

Forgiveness has made sweet once more! 

To-morrow — when the sea-blown bird 
Finds the safe shelter of the shore! 

To-morrow — when the wrong is right. 
Nor coward fears the hope betray! 

To-morrow — hush! the East is white 
With God's unalterable to-day! 

THE WEAVER 

I sit apart in shadow — yet my hands 

Are busy with the shuttle's come and go, 
And on my loom — the motley figures grow 

Out of the color of the woven strands: 
I have had rumor of all times and lands — 

Strange faces and far cities I do know, 
Old loves, forgotten warfares — soon or slow 

Their image haunts the changing pattern's 
bands! 
Sable and azure — crimson, gold and rose — 

The restless shuttle waits the fateful thread, 
The echoed pageant claims its history — 

Today's report or yesteryear's — who knows? 
Mine is the morrow, mine the quick and dead, 

Mine the last secret of Eternity. 



63 



POSTSCRIPT 

Now I have brought you my dreams. 

And spread them before your feet; 
Will they be to you only 

As blown leaves, 
Russet and red 

For you to tread on 
And pass by? 

My dreams! 
That are tissue of gold 

Beaten thin 
And scarlet with living flame. 



64 



